


Lick Your Wounds

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Breakaway Cast, Cruise Ships, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fever, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mom Friend Anne Boleyn, Mom Friend Jane Seymour, Protectiveness, Sickfic, Sister-Sister Relationship, Vomiting, medical emergencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25176457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: She lays there, sprawled out on her back among the pieces of a useless broken ladder. The light is still dangling above her like a silver sword. She achieved absolutely nothing from that.“And this is why I’m not a tech person.” She said to herself.She hadn’t expected a reply, since no one was around, but she got one anyway in the form of soft pops and snaps. Confused, she looked up right in time to see the light finally break away from its wires and plummet to the ground.It’s strange, she thinks, how some people don’t realize they’re injured at first. She once read a book where the main character got shot, but they didn’t even feel the pain of a bullet passing through their side until they saw the blood. Adrenaline just does that to you- but only with cuts and stabs and bullet wounds, because when the light crashed down onto her left hand, she felt it instantly.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. Beware The Blue Whale

“Shit!!”

“Language.” Jane chided as she was getting her makeup ready. She then swung her head around to look at the one who had cried out- the young music director, Joan. The girl was shaking her hand frantically in the air, trying to ward off obvious pain. The curling iron Katherine had asked for is now on the floor, which she quickly swipes up. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Ow, ow, ow…!” Joan squeaked out softly. She finally stopped waving her hand around and inspected the damage- almost the entirety of her palm and parts of her fingers were glowing red with an upcoming burn. She couldn’t help but whimper at the pain. “I’m- ow, fuck…”

“Language.” Jane said again.

“S-sorry,” Joan stammered. “But I’m- I’m fine. I think. God that hurts…!”

“You were burned, love. It’s gonna hurt.” Jane said as if Joan didn’t already know that.

“That’s why you pick up a curling iron by the handle!” Cleves chortled. Of all people, of course SHE had to see it. Joan was already preparing for all the teasing she was gonna her now. “Not by the hot part! What were you thinking?”

Joan’s cheeks flushed bright red and she looked down. She cradled her hand close to her chest.

“I-I was distracted…”

“Obviously.” Cleves snickered. “How can you run the show if you don’t even know how to grab a curling iron correctly?”

There it was. Everyone’s favorite thing to tease Joan over- how she wasn’t mature enough to be the music director. She knew it was all harmless fun, but it gets to the point where they’re trying to take over her job because nobody thinks she can direct herself. It was infuriating.

“I—”

Joan didn’t know how to defend herself, so she just hugged and stormed out, which definitely didn’t make her seem any less childish.

She trudged down the hallway, grumbling to herself as she turned into the bathroom. On her way in, Maggie must have spotted her, because she enters seconds after.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maggie asked in her regular, dry voice. She wasn’t very emotional in tone- Joan knew she reacted more with her eyes.

“Nothing.” Joan snapped. She noticed Maggie raise her eyebrows slightly- she was amused by her efforts to be prickly. “I just- I burned myself.”

She ran her injured hand under cold water, hoping that would soothe the stinging that infected her palm. Maggie walks up behind her and peers down at the damage.

“How’d you manage that?” She questioned.

“I—” Joan blushed. “I grabbed a curling iron.”

“You grabbed a curling iron.” Maggie echoed. “By, what, the curling part? While it was hot?”

“I was distracted!!” Joan cried, her voice raising up a few pitches from embarrassment.

“Ah,” Maggie said, as if the answer made the occurrence any less understandable. “I see.”

Joan grumbled something.

She pulled her hand out of the running water and the stinging sensation immediately returned. She winced, finding it difficult to simply curl her fingers.

“Are you alright?” Maggie asked, her slightly concerned voice betraying the mellow look in her eyes.

“I’ll be fine.” Joan grunted. “I have to be. I have a show to do.”

“You can take off, you know.” Maggie pointed out.

“For a little burn?” Joan shook her head. “No way. Cleves will never let me live that down.”

Maggie’s lips twitched slightly as Joan walked out to get ready for the show that day. She sighed, then followed, shaking her head.

—

When the show eventually began, Joan slightly regretted not taking Maggie’s advice to sit out and let her dep take over for the evening.

Every twitch of her fingers, each slam of her hands on the keys sent strings of fire burning up Joan’s left wrist. Usually the thrill of playing with so much energy made her feel exhilarated and at peace in a strange sort of way, but now it was just torturing her with the pain of her burn.

When she wasn’t conducting or playing, she cradled her hand against her chest and rubbed the scarred flesh tentatively, which probably didn’t look very mature on the camera she was on, but, at that point, she didn’t really care. She just wanted the sting to go away. And to maybe lay down with her hand in some ice water.

After the show ended, Joan was planning on doing that, but then she got word that she had to do some music director business, and, of course, she couldn’t turn that away. She wanted to seem more responsible with her job, after all.

So, Joan ended up staying several hours in the auditorium after the show ended, while everyone else was out having fun on the ship. But that’s the sacrifice she had to make as an MD.

The clock soon struck nine and Joan rubbed her eyes tiredly. She looked up from the sheet music she had been touching up on and decided that that was good enough. She could finish it up later. Right now, she just wanted to go sleep.

As she made her way out of her dressing room and through the wings, she noticed a light dangling from its beam. She inwardly cursed the tech team for not fixing or seeing this and went to find something to stand on to save the light before it fell.

What she managed to scrap up was a ladder in the back of a storage closet. It wasn’t one of those step up or folding ladders, but one of the big wooden ones that you have to prop against a surface.

Carrying it was a slight struggle and would have been very embarrassing if she hadn’t have been alone, but she managed to get it to the right location without dropping it on herself or whacking anything backstage.

The minute Joan grabbed one of the rungs with her bad hand, pain shot through her wrist and she hissed softly. The old wood pressed uncomfortably against the dry flesh on her palm, practically threatening to peel it open. She brought her hand to her chest, not wanting to harm it further, and climbed the ladder just using her right one…which was a lot harder than she expected.

Joan wobbled treacherously several times as she worked her way up to the dangling light. A sense of vertigo settles over her the more the ladder creaked and rocked with the movements of the ship. Still, she pushes on. She didn’t want to be the reason why a very expensive piece of tech broke. And, maybe, her fixing this could finally get her some recognition!

A small smirk of pride twitches on Joan’s lips as she began fiddling with the light. She made sure to be mindful of all the jagged chunks of uprooted metal along the beam the piece of equipment was situated on- she also rolled her eyes at the terrible upkeep of the thing. Seriously, there’s rust on this and everything! It could really hurt someone if it were to break.

The ladder groans loudly at the exertion of her body weight, like it was begging her to get off of its old, worn body. She dismisses it’s plea and continues- she’s not that heavy! Probably. Really, she didn’t actually know her weight. Checking it on the scale embarrasses her.

There’s another moan from the creaky wood. She’s only balancing on her feet, since her left hand still hurts too much to hang onto anything, so she was jostling the ladder a little when she reaches to untie the light to bring it down. Well, she was jostling it a lot.

Joan yelped when the ladder staggered slightly. She grasps tightly to the light, nearly ripping it off of the beam it was hanging from. She had no choice but to steady herself by grabbing onto the side of the ladder with her bad hand, wincing when her palm flexes and fingers curl. She gets herself balanced out again, but she doesn’t miss the tiny cracking sound of wood.

Joan swallowed hard. Now she knew why this thing was tucked away so far in storage.

The bottom of the ladder was starting to chip away and break. Cobwebs of cracks spread through the sides rapidly. Joan knew she had to get off now or she was going to bust her ass when the entire thing fell.

Ditching the light, Joan quickly began climbing down when the horrible sound of wood snapping filled her ears. There was a spectacular spray of chips as the ladder gave way and began crumbling in on itself. First, the bottom rungs broke in half, then the middle rungs fell away, and finally, the sides uprooted themselves in chunks. Despite her best efforts, Joan still ended up falling on her ass, anyway.

She lays there, sprawled out on her back amongst the pieces of a useless broken ladder. The light is still dangling above her like a silver sword. She achieved absolutely nothing from that.

“And this is why I’m the music director. Not a tech person.” She said to herself.

She hadn’t expected a reply, since no one was around, but she got one anyway in the form of soft pops and snaps. Confused, Joan looked up right in time to see the light finally break away from its wires and plummet to the ground.

It’s strange, Joan thinks, how some people don’t realize they’re injured at first. She once read a book where the main character got shot, but they didn’t even feel the pain of a bullet passing through their side until they saw the blood. Adrenaline just does that to you- but only with cuts and stabs and bullet wounds, because when the light crashed down onto her left hand, she felt it instantly.

Scream.

Joan instinctively writhed to get away, but she was pinned down by the heavy piece of equipment. When she continued to squirm anyway, she could feel jagged shards of glass scrape against her palm, and that makes her howl louder. She’s wailing so much that her vocal cords start to ache from the exertion of each cry, but who could blame her? She had a twenty pound light sitting on her!

All her limbs are flapping and waving, and she might have been embarrassed by how she was flailing like a drunk duck if it weren’t for the intense pressure digging down into her burn. It made her see spots, or perhaps she just passed out for a moment. She didn’t know- she just had to get this thing off of her.

After a few seconds of more fearful wiggling, she finally managed to roll herself onto her side. Red was spreading out from under the light, so she quickly pushed the it off and freed her hand.

If you could even call it a hand anymore. The thing was so swollen and bloody and mangled that it didn’t even look like what it used to be. A few of her fingers were definitely pressed back in ways that shouldn’t be possible. And that, doubled with the chunk of metal stuck directly through the palm, made Joan cry even harder.

There was metal. In her hand. Or not-hand. She didn’t know anymore. Everything was starting to haze together and she couldn’t contain herself long enough to think rationally about what she should do and the tears wouldn’t stop and she just wanted Maggie right about then.

Joan crumbles to her side, struggling to breathe through the pain. She looks at the sprinkle of glass stuck in her skin, then the piece of metal and whimpered pathetically. She had no other choice but to start plucking it out.

Man, she wished adrenaline would kick in.

She’s pulled out glass from her skin before- she was a VERY clumsy lady in waiting- but with her anxiety rush, it made the already-tedious process absolutely hellish. Her right hand shook so bad she would accidentally slit her flesh with the glass when she pulled it out, which then caused her to grab harder and puncture her fingertips, but it was just glass. Not a chunk of metal driven directly through her hand.

Joan screamed as she finally pulled the spike free. She screamed and bawled and whimpered and cried and sobbed and threw up. She may have even passed out for a few minutes. She didn’t really know. The only thing she was really aware of at that moment was her own shrieks ripping her throat raw and the blood bubbling from the slick maw now opened up in her hand.

She couldn’t see how big it was, but she could see through it, and that made her vomit again. She chokes on the bile for a moment because of her constant cries and that made her panic for an entirely other reason, but she manages to dislodge the liquid in her throat and cough it all up onto the backstage floor.

This was going to be a mess for the janitors.

Joan stopped screaming eventually, but her crying continued, as did her heavy, ragged breathing. The pain was unbearable, and the dizziness now swirling around her didn’t help at all. She was losing too much blood.

Could she bleed out from a hand wound?

Joan pushes herself against the wall with her legs, getting away from the pool of vomit she had been kneeling in. She managed to push herself up into a sitting position, although it made extremely woozy and nauseous. She had to wait for the world to stop spinning before she could continue with the hazy plan she had created in her head.

What she was going to do was tear off a strip of fabric from her shirt and bind her hand, then call for help, but ripping cloth was a lot harder than it looked in movies, so she just ended up taking her top off entirely (thank god for tank tops). She shakily wrapped the yellow shirt around her wound, biting her lip so hard she thought her teeth would go through. The fabric itches uncomfortably against the gash and makes her stomach churn, but it was stemming the bleeding…even if it was turning dark red at an alarming rate.

Step two of her plan failed, too, because Joan couldn’t get up. Her legs worked just fine, but the pain in her hand was crushing her, so she just remained on the floor. All she could do from there was curl up into a ball and cry until she could think straight.

———

Cathy was a little alarmed to say the least when she walked into the auditorium to retrieve the key card she forgot and heard crying. She was even more alarmed when she found Joan curled up on the floor backstage, weeping.

“Joan?” Cathy said.

It was too dark to see what was stressing the girl, but it didn’t take long when she stepped into something wet. She turned on her phone and the glow from the screen illuminated the puddle of blood mixed with vomit her sandal was sitting in. However, Cathy didn’t scream or freak out until she angled the light towards the girl on the ground and saw the completely bloodied shirt wrapped around her hand.

“Holy shit!” Cathy yelped. She doesn’t even have time to panic or be scared or even ask what’s wrong or what the hell happened because Joan whimpered in very obvious pain and Cathy is already darting down to her side, nearly slipping in the puddle of body fluids in the process.

“Sorry,” Joan whispers and her voice is nearly drowned out by Cathy’s own breathing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to break… It—hurts. I’m…” She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, as a ripple of pain sears through her arm and into the rest of her body and she curls up tighter, her right, and equally bloody hand clutching at the mass of stained fabric wrapped around the other own.

“Hey, don’t apologize.” Cathy said. She and the girl before her weren’t all that close, so she had no idea how to calm her. “You’re going to be okay, do you hear me? Can you stand?”

Joan very clearly didn’t want to move, but she hauled herself up anyway. Cathy helped steady her and guide her outside of the auditorium and- good lord, under the deck lights, the shirt was even bloodier than she had expected. And there was blood on the girl’s white undershirt and blood on her blue jean shorts and blood on her face and- there was just so much blood.

“Cathy,” Joan croaked weakly as Cathy practically drags her along. “S-slow down…please, slow down…” Despite the main injury being on her hand, she was having a hard time walking. Whether it be from the pain being that bad or the dizziness from blood loss or the possibility that her tail bone was cracked after she fell from the ladder, she didn’t know.

“We gotta get you to the medical wing.” Cathy said, not slowing down, despite Joan’s weak pleas.

“I-I know, I just-” Joan cut herself off with a whimper.

People were staring and gasping and even screaming when she’s pulled by. She doesn’t blame them- the shirt around her hand was quite an eyesore.

“C-can you call Maggie?”

“Maggie?” Cathy blinked. “Why?”

Joan wished she had the energy to snap at Cathy for being mean. Everyone always treated Maggie like she was emotionless and just a stone cold asshole; Joan absolutely hated it. However, she was much to weak to argue, so she just begs again.

“Please,” Joan whimpered out.

“Ah- yeah. Sure.” Cathy said and fumbles with her phone in her pocket.

Cathy was in the middle of the frantic phone call with Maggie when she finally steered Joan into the medical wing. Inside, the nurses were working on patching up a pretty nasty scrape on a little boy’s knee while his parents and younger sister watched, but their attention was quickly turned away from something so minor when Joan came into full view.

“Oh my god,” The mother of the boy muttered, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Joan was immediately sat on one of the two beds in the main room, right beside the boy, who is staring at the reddened makeshift bindings with wide eyes. A nurse began to unwrap the shirt while two others got necessary supplies, but they quickly realized this was much more than what they were expecting.

Under the bright, fluorescent lights of the medical room, the damage was revealed to be way worse than anyone was expecting. Joan’s hand was swollen and a terrible red-purple color, fingers bent in terrible positions. The hole at the center of her hand was weeping discharge and blood so dark it looked black. Mangles strips of flesh were frayed around the edges of the gaping maw like teeth, only adding to the grotesque appearance. Cathy’s resulting gag didn’t help, either.

The nurses did all they could, setting her dislocated fingers and stopping the bleeding and dressing the wound with proper bandages, but…

“What do you mean you can’t give her proper medical care?”

Maggie’s voice is as sharp as daggers. She had crashed into the medical wing five minutes ago and has been glued to Joan’s side since.

“We don’t have the right equipment here to treat her fully.” One of the nurses said as gently as possible. She still gets a livid glare from Maggie, anyway. “She needs a proper IV drip and antibiotics and stitches and treatment for nerve damage, and we don’t have that on the ship.”

Maggie grits her teeth tightly, but manages to bite back any insults or profanities. Instead, she just hissed out, “How long until she can get proper care?”

“When we dock at our next stop, then she can be taken to the hospital there.” A second nurse answered.

“And how long will that take?”

The nurses exchange anxious looks.

“A week.”


	2. Behind The Siren’s Eyes

Being cooped up in a cabin on a grand, amazing cruise ship wasn’t that bad if you didn’t think about it!

Oh, who was Joan kidding. She was absolutely miserable. And not just because her hand is swollen and cut open.

After getting sent back to her cabin once her hand was wrapped up and the gash was patched together with medical tape, Maggie practically forced Joan to sleep. Not that she had a problem with that. It wasn’t until the next day that boredom set in.

Joan first awoke to aching, throbbing pain in her hand. She whimpered loudly, inwardly thanking god that she had a single cabin. Then, she collected her bearings and got up-

-only to realize there was no need to get dressed. She had been called out of the show until they arrived at the next stop- Cozumel, apparently- and got proper medical attention. Well, since she was up, she might as well freshen up.

And that is when she realized how awkward it was to brush her teeth with her non-dominant hand. It was like the way she simply moved a toothbrush felt wrong in her right hand. But that wasn’t all: she quickly learned that many things were a struggle. Like typing on her phone using only one thumb because she had to use all her other fingers to hold it up. And playing on her Switch. And reading! She couldn’t even flip the page without having to put down the entire book and turn the paper like that!

To put it simply, she wasn’t having the best of times. And it was only the first of seven days.

Joan was doing the only thing she could manage to do without struggle, watch TV, when there was a knock at her door. She said come in and Maggie entered, holding a small paper bag that filled the room with a sweet smell.

“Maggie!” Joan cheered, throwing only one arm up. “You came to visit me!”

“Of course.” Maggie said. She walked over to the bed and set the bag in Joan’s lap. “I brought you doughnuts.”

Joan’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight seeping in through the windows.

“Thank you!” She chirped. “You’re the best!”

“I know.” Maggie said. Her voice was as dry and deadpanned as always, but there was a crinkle around her eyes and Joan knew she was doing her version of smiling.

“As you should.” Joan hummed. She went to open the bag, but winced when she accidentally moved her left hand. Maggie notices.

“It still hurts? Ah- stupid question. Don’t answer that. Of course it does.” She tentatively touched Joan’s wrist, causing her to whimper, so she quickly pulled away. “I barely touched you. It’s that bad?”

Joan nodded with another tiny whimper. She carefully sets her hand back onto a pillow and waited for the pain to die down before she spoke up again.

“I-it really hurts, Maggie.” She whispered. “I took the painkillers the nurses gave me, but…they take awhile to kick in.”

Maggie frowned. She opens the bag of doughnuts and popped one of the doughnut holes into Joan’s mouth, causing her to squeak softly.

“I’ll go see if they have anything stronger, alright?” She said. “But first eat. I’ll help you.”

Joan blushed dark red. Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I-I’m not!” Joan barked. “You just- mph!!” Another doughnut hole is stuffed in her mouth. “Mmmph…” She grumbled.

Maggie blew out an amused breath before looking at the TV, which was playing a beach house hunting show. She wrinkles her nose at it.

“Why do you always watch this crap?” She asked.

“The houses are pretty.” Joan said, still chewing. Maggie jabs her in her stomach, causing her to squirm away with a muffled squeal.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Maggie hissed. She looked back at the TV, swiping a doughnut hole for herself.

The two eat their sugary breakfast in silence for awhile, watching a basic white heterosexual couple tell the poor real estate agent about what they wanted in their house (“You can’t have a house in the middle of town AND have easy access to the beach. You have to pick one, you selfish bitch.” Maggie had commented at one point). When the first commercial break happens, Maggie picks up on Joan wiggling beside her. The girl was blushing, too. She looked at her strangely.

“What are you doing?”

“I- umm…” Joan’s ears ignite in enraged shades of red. “I have to use the bathroom.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows with a quick puff exhaled from her nose.

“Do you?” She said, then got up. “Alright. Come on.”

“I don’t need your help!” Joan squealed. “I just- you asked what I was doing, so-”

“Go piss.”

“Don’t say it like that!!”

Joan rolled out of bed with as much grace as a drunk roly-poly would have and hobbled her way to the bathroom, where she then met her greatest challenge yet: pulling her shorts down with only one hand.

“Okay, Joan. You can do this.” She whispered to herself.

“Are you talking to yourself while peeing?” Maggie called from outside.

“Shut up!!” Joan cried. Then, softly, she grumbled, “I’m not even peeing yet…”

She turned her attention back to her mission and grabbed the waistline of her shorts. She pulled that side down below her hips and then reached over to the other side, doing the same, but this time feeling her muscles strain slightly from the stretch of doing so. Which was kind of pathetic, but she dismissed it and continued.

“Do you need help?” Maggie called again.

“No! No, I got it!” Joan called back as she wiggled around like a spastic worm to get her pants to fall down to her ankles. That was not something she wanted Maggie to see, especially when she lost her footing and careened herself directly into the wall.

On her bad arm.

“Ahh-!!” Joan squeaked.

“Joan?!” Maggie’s voice sounds uncharacteristically frantic. She’s in the bathroom in seconds, nearly flinging the door off its hinges. Her panic is halted, however, when she sees Joan hopping and squirming around the small space with her shorts around her ankles while keening in pain.

Maggie closes the door and goes back to the bed without another word.

When Joan eventually gets finished doing her business (which consists of her struggling to pull her shorts up and then ditching them entirely), they don’t speak of the event and just stare at the house hunting show playing on TV in silence.

“Anne is coming to visit you later.” Maggie finally said, breaking the awkwardness.

“Really?” Joan perked up.

“Yup,” Maggie nodded. “She would be here right now if it weren’t for morning rehearsals.”

“You skipped rehearsals for me?”

“Well, of course.”

Joan smiled at that, then yawned. She rubbed her eyes with her good hand.

“You’re already tired?” Maggie asked.

“I, umm-” Joan is blushing again. “I didn’t really sleep.” She continues in a mumble, “Hurt too much…”

“You pitiful little thing.” Maggie crooned, plucking some hair out of Joan’s pink face. “Why don’t you rest up? Let me get you settled-”

Maggie went to crawl out of the bed to fix the sheets and maybe convince Joan to put on pants, when a hand- one that wasn’t grizzled by gore and bandages- grabs onto her shirt and she’s yanked back down. Not even she could bite back a soft yelp at the strength this hurt girl had.

“You’re soft.” Joan murmured faintly. Maggie had fallen back onto the bed at an odd angle and Joan was curled up in a way that let her nuzzle her face against her stomach.

“And you’re delusional.” Maggie said. She went to move into a better position, when she noticed that Joan’s chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Asleep, already?

Joan looked so much more peaceful than she did earlier, and watching her, with her nose buried in her stomach, told Maggie that she wouldn’t be able to move for awhile. Or, well, until she had to get to the show.

“Rest up, pumpkin.” Maggie whispered, brushing Joan’s fringe back and kissing her temple gingerly.

“Hm?” Joan opens her eyes and looked up at Maggie.

“Ah-” Maggie blinked. “You’re awake?”

“Pumpkin?” Joan hummed absently. “You’ve never…called me that before…”

“You were supposed to be asleep, dumbass.” If she weren’t afraid it’d hurt her, Maggie would have punched Joan right in the shoulder. So, instead, she flicked her forehead, earning her a sharp whine as an answer.

“You’ve called me _that_ before, though…”

Her semi-asleep retorts make Maggie exhale a breath in amusement.

“Well, since you’re awake, can you put some pants on for me?”

“But…I’m not wearing pants…”

Joan peeks under the blanket and looks herself over weakly, confirming that she wasn’t, in fact, wearing pants.

“That’s right. You already took them off. For some reason.”

“I…took off my pants?”

“Yes.”

“…Oh. ‘M sorry…”

“It’s okay, Joan. Just put them- what are you laughing at?”

Joan is giggling endearingly into Maggie’s stomach. It’s such a sweet sound, after everything that’s happened.

“You.” Joan squeaked out. “You’re silly, Gigi…”

“Oh yes.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “ _I’m_ the silly one here.”

“M-Maggie, stop it, it hurts,” Joan stutters out between giggles.

“I’m literally not doing anything.”

Joan howls at that and dug her face further into Maggie’s midsection. If anyone else had been doing such a thing she would have been thoroughly pissed off at such an invasion of her personal face, but Joan was an exception.

“Okay, okay-” Maggie finally has to pull herself away and get out of the bed, earning her quite an adorable pout. She dug through one of Joan’s drawers and pulled out some soft grey sleeping pants. “Come on. Get your knickers on.”

Joan made a face.

“It’s pronounced ‘sweat pants’, Maggie.”

“Actually it’s pronounced, ‘Put them on so we can go to sleep’, Joan.” Maggie retorts.

“Fine.” Joan grumbled. “Close your eyes.”

Maggie does as she’s asked and turns away. She prepares the bed as she hears Joan struggle behind her.

“Okay.”

“All set?”

“Can we go to bed now?”

“Do you want to change your shirt or take some medicine?”

Joan moans in an exasperatedly cute way. “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“Can we go to bed now?”

The repeated dialogue worries Maggie a bit, so she concedes to the demand.

“Yeah,” She breathed. She got Joan into the bed and then laid down beside her. She brought the younger girl’s face up to burrow into her neck and placed a quick peck on her cheek.

“Will you…stay with me…?”

“Of course, darling. Of course I will.” Maggie feels Joan smile weakly.

It doesn’t take long for Joan to drift off, snuggled up contently against her dear friend. Maggie watches over her, being mindful of her hand.

When it was time for her to leave for the show, Joan whimpered in her sleep at the loss of warmth. Maggie ended up giving her the stuffed monkey thing she kept under her pillow, and the girl cuddled it instantly. She shook her head in amusement.

“Stupid tambourine.”

————

“Oh, Joanie!!”

Maggie winced at the volume Anne had when she entered the pianist’s cabin.

“Will you shut up?” She hissed. “She might be sleeping!”

“Wha…?” Joan lifted her head from where it had been buried in her blankets. She blinked blearily. “Maggie…?”

“And me!” Anne piped up.

“Annie?”

The queen and her former Lady go to the bedside, sitting on the edge of it. Joan looks up at them with a very relieved, or maybe just dazed, expression.

“You came back…” She drawls out. “And Annie’s with you!”

“I told you.” Maggie said.

Anne ruffles Joan’s unruly hair, which she mentally notes is rather sweaty.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?”

“Mmm,” Joan shrugged, but winced at the movement of her left arm. It makes Anne and Maggie exchange looks that such a simple action can cause her pain. “Bored. Lonely. Really tired…”

“Then maybe you should go back to sleep,” Maggie suggested. “We can leave if you’d-”

“N-no!” Joan cried suddenly. “P-please don’t go! Don’t leave me…”

Looks are exchange by the queen and her former Lady again. Anne gently smoothes out Joan’s hair.

“Alright, sweetheart. We won’t go anywhere.”

Joan smiled weakly before laying her head back down. Her bad hand is resting on a pillow, lax and perfectly still. The bandages are slightly redder than they had been that morning.

“Hey, Joan,” Maggie said.

“Mmmm?” Joan opened one eye.

“Maybe we should redress your hand? The nurses did give us extra bandages-”

“No!” Joan cowered away. She rips her hand off of the pillow when Maggie grabbed for it. “No, no! Please no!”

“Joan, it needs to be-”

“No!!” Joan howled. “It’s-it’s gonna hurt too bad! P-please don’t, Maggie! Please!”

She screams loudly when Maggie reaches for her hand, and that’s what gets the guitarist to back down.

For a moment, Maggie is mortified at how scared she made the poor girl, but she quickly erased that terror. She couldn’t let her persona fall.

“She won’t, Joan.” Anne said, trying to smooth things over. “She won’t touch your hand, alright? Just calm down.”

Joan hiccuped. She’s crying, now. Not that anyone can blame her.

Maggie climbs fully into the bed and Joan is in her arms in an instant, whimpering and weeping. She glances worriedly over at Anne for a moment, who looks equally as concerned.

“I-I’m sorry, Gigi,” Joan sobbed weakly.

“Shh, shh.” Maggie murmured. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Maggie holds the girl gently. And she lies to her, over and over.

Because Joan was not okay. And Maggie had the horrible, sickening feeling she’s only going to get worse.


	3. These Shark-Infested Waters

Joan’s sick of being injured.

She’s currently laying on her cabin bed, looking out the window at the sparkling ocean stretched all around the ship. She’s hot and clammy, despite it being rather cool in the room. She takes her drugs on time, or at least she thinks she does. She can’t really remember what she does anymore. Her mind is so fuzzy and disjointed that she can’t even seem to remember her own name at times.

She peers at the vibrant sea, blinking her eyes into a squint as the light from the setting sun bounces off the glistening water, blinding her temporarily. It’s the evening of the third day out of seven and she already feels the effects of isolation setting in deep. It didn’t help that the day before was spend completely alone, since there was a double show, which meant Maggie or anyone else was too busy to visit her. It’s the first time since she got on the ship that she didn’t see Maggie in twenty-four hours.

And it did not feel good.

“Dammit,” Joan muttered under her breath as she feels her mouth go dry.

She hated this feeling. She felt hopeless and insecure and forgotten and useless. She’s always had issues with her confidence, but right now she’s at an all time low. She can’t sleep alone. She can’t write or work or perform or lift anything too heavy. She can barely go to the bathroom without smashing herself into the wall! Hell, she doesn’t even know what she’s going to do when she has to start bathing herself! She’s been wearing the same thing for three days- the clothes are probably now permanently saturated with sweat.

Oh how she ached to get back out to the world, to explore the boat and try all the things it offered. She has music director work to go through, still. Being cooped up in a cabin was not something that she had on her to-do list.

Joan let out a low, pained groan as she slung her good arm over her eyes. Isolation was digging in deep, now. Not even the pretty houses on all the house hunting shows she’s watched could distract her from the gnawing sense of loneliness that ate away at her.

She misses Maggie.

Joan rolled over suddenly, sending pins and needles up her left arm. She ignored it and grabbed her phone.

**[Mag-Dog]**

**Joey: I miss you**

Joan waits thirty seconds after the message is read.

Nothing.

She tries again.

**[Mag-Dog]**

**Joey: I miss you**

This one isn’t read this time.

Maybe she’s coming off too strong? Or maybe Maggie just doesn’t care…

**[Mag-Dog]**

**Joey: When are you gonna come over again? I wanna see you**

**Joey: Please**

**Joey: I’m so bored**

**Joey: And I miss you :(**

Nothing.

Joan whimpered softly and put her phone back down, then buried herself in her blankets. She clutched her stuffed tamarin, Sunny, close to her chest, feeling like it was her only friend.

“At least I have you, Sunny…” Joan whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “You’ll never leave me, right?”

God, how pathetic could she be? She’s talking to a stuffed animal.

Sudden rage bubbled up in Joan’s chest. Maggie probably forgot about her. She was probably just waiting for something like this to happen so she could get away from her.

Maggie didn’t care about her.

Maggie never cared.

In a fit of anger, Joan threw Sunny at the wall and then slammed herself back into her blankets, crying. And she hates that she does this because- because she can’t- because it all-

It just-

It didn’t start like _this_.

Like her lungs are full of water and her chest is thick and heavy with sludge and mud. Like each breath is razor sharp and threatens to drown her with the muck bubbling up in her throat. Like everything and everyone is against her.

It started out slow. First the whispers, then the doubt, and then the nausea. Slowly, she feels more like a corpse and less like a human, and she wishes things could go back to being good again.

Things are just changing so fast and Joan can’t keep up. The queens told her to dive, but every time she tries to swim forward, she’s battered by the waves and slammed back against the jagged rocks along the shoreline, where her cries are muffled by salty green water and her skin is torn. She barley gets time to breathe before she’s dragged back in by the undertow, whipping her around in the current until she’s a broken carcass lying upon the sand.

The only thing that keeps her up is the violent spray of the sea was Maggie. Maggie keeps her sane when she’s tormented by her insecurity, keeps her waking up in the morning instead of wallowing in bed, keeps her functioning even when mockery degrades her, keeps her from throwing herself over the edge of the ship when everything feels like it’s too much, keeps her from completely shattering when the deaths of Anne and Jane and Katherine flash back to her because THAT’S still a thing to break her down.

But not anymore. Because Maggie doesn’t care.

And then the cabin door’s locking mechanism clicks and the door pushes open.

Joan froze.

“So…you miss me?”

Maggie is standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Joan snaps up instantly- well, after she scrubs her face in her blankets to rid it of tear stains.

“Maggie!” She cried in relief.

“That’s my name, yes.” Maggie replied. She looked down the stuffed tamarin lying tail-up near her feet. She picks it up and dusts it off. She might have even straightened out some of its stupid fur. “What’d your tambourine do to get banished to the floor? Say something mean to you?”

Joan blushes and looks down at her lap, which is quickly situated by Sunny, who Maggie sets there.

“Nothing.” Joan mumbled, hunching she shoulders in. This action makes her left arm ache, but she really didn’t care.

“Hm.” Maggie isn’t convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Alright.” She moves on. “So…wanna watch a movie?”

“Actually,” Joan fidgets slightly. “I was wondering if I could go out.”

“Out of the cabin?”

Joan nodded

“I don’t know…”

“Please, Maggie?” Joan is giving the guitarist her best puppy dog eyes. “I won’t do anything! I’m just getting cabin fever. Literally. This is a cabin! Can we just walk around?”

Maggie tries to avoid the pianist’s big, soft, glistening eyes, but it’s impossible. She sighed.

“Fine.”

“Yay!!”

“But if I see you try to do anything with that hand I WILL drag you back to this room by the ear.”

Joan giggled. “I won’t do anything, I promise!”

And that’s how Joan and Maggie ended up on the front of the ship during the middle of one of its routinely evening dance parties, which were mainly for kids, but they both knew Bessie and Maria were guilty of jamming out during a few (and ultimately being the best dancers there- Maggie had no idea how they managed to control their long limbs so well). Strobe lights were flashing maniacally, the speakers were pounding with the volume of the music, a mass of dancing people were writhe on the deck, and Joan’s left hand was throbbing with the beat blaring through the air. At first, it brought her a sense of thrill to be out of her cabin, but then the pulsation in her hand grew stronger and felt like it was going to rip in two, or maybe just explode, with each intense hum of the bass. What makes it worse is that Maggie keeps glancing at her, her form of worry glinting in her eyes, and she knows that this fun evening is just going to be a chaperoning experience.

Her first time out of the cabin since the incident is going great, really. Yes, Joan loved being spotted by the boy with the scraped knee from the medical wing and then getting pointed at- or, rather, her bandaged hand getting pointed at. She could already hear the stupid rumors the children would start- would they ding dong ditch her cabin door and if they didn’t run away fast enough she would drag them inside and cut off their left hand to use as her new replacement? Would they dare each other to break inside the room and take a piece of her “cursed bloody bandages” to prove their courage? Would they try to unwrap it completely to see what horrors lied beneath? Would they say she hunts down people to peel the skin off their hand to use to cover her own? Would they call her the “One-Handed Siren” or “Juana the Degloved” or “Ripskin”?

She didn’t know.

But then it just got worse. Some jerkoff thought that Joan, despite her, and he quotes, “fucked up hand”, was cute (which she is) and that she was a vulnerable target (which she most certainly is not). He’s currently twelve feet away, nursing his wounded ego and muttering to his other jackass friends. Props to Maggie for that one.

Maggie is sharing a side table with Joan, now. It may seem like she’s shielding Joan from the other cruise patrons, but honestly, she’s shielding the rest of the cruise patrons from Joan. The girl in question is slumped against the railing, listlessly watching the black waves below roll by.

“God,” Maggie eventually sighed. “It’s gonna be a miserable fucking night tonight with all this noise.”

Joan snorted. “You can say that again.”

“God,” Maggie got out before Joan slapped a hand over her mouth. After a moment of contemplation, she sticks out her tongue to lick it.

“Maggie, gross!” Joan exclaimed, jerking her hand back and wiping it on her sweat pants (the same sweat pants she’s been wearing for the past three days…she had refused to change, just put on a grey hoody over her wrinkled bumblebee shirt). She’s smiling, though, which Maggie takes as a victory. “What are you, five?”

“Yes,” Maggie told her flatly. “But I’m very mature for my age.”

Joan snorted and affectionately bumped the guitarist’s shoulder with hers. Instead of returning to the ocean, she allows herself to slump against Maggie’s shoulder. She bumps her cheek against the top of her head in return.

Maggie never saw Joan interacting with her queens or anyone else in a normal context before the ship, since they had only really saw each other at rehearsals, so she doesn’t know if she had always been so touch-starved. She’s certainly never liked touching people very much, in her past life the only exception to that had been Anne and her brother (even her husband hadn’t been included in that…and yet they still had so many kids), but after reincarnation and Joan’s obvious need for human contact, she’s gotten used to her friend using her as an all-purpose piece of furniture. It’s nice, she’ll admit. She wouldn’t put up with it from anyone but Joan, but if her ~~little sister~~ friend suddenly stopped, she’d miss it.

She wiggled out her arm from the side of the chair to drape it across Joan’s shoulders and pull her closer. She can feel the gaze of some of the other people on the deck on them, but she doesn’t give a fuck.

After Anne’s execution, she hasn’t been able to give a fuck about most things.

They spend thirty minutes on the deck playing stupid games like I Spy, and then, when those get boring, trying to guess details about the other people from their appearance or behavior. Joan has to hide a laugh in Maggie’s hair when she mutters that Jackass is likely related to lemurs (“no, really, Joey, you saw his eyes when I flipped him off”). There’s a song playing again and again by some annoying kid requesting it on repeat like a wannabe John “Salt and Pepper Diner” Mulaney and the screams and laughs of the more rowdy boys, and normally Maggie would be so irritated that she’d pick a fight just to make it all stop, but Joan is here, and that makes it all bearable.

And then Joan tugs Maggie’s sleeve.

With the deck light and multicolored flashing strobes, Maggie is able to see that Joan is significantly paler than she had been thirty minutes ago. Her eyes were glossier, too. And her breathing was definitely much more shallow.

“What’s up?” Maggie asked.

“Can we—” Joan swallowed hard. “C-can we go? I-I don’t feel so good…”

Maggie’s eyes widen slightly (not fully, but even halfway was enough to show that she was genuinely shocked) and helped Joan to her feet instantly. The girl is wobbly and unsteady, so she lets her lean on her.

“Yeah, of course. Come on.”

As they’re leaving, Jackass makes one final comment, begging Joan to stay a little longer- that he wanted to know what it felt like to get a handjob from her “gnarly, fucked up hand”, and that’s what made Maggie finally snap. She told Joan to wait one moment, snatched a cup of lemonade from an unsuspecting woman, and threw it directly into Jackass’ face. She didn’t speak a word to him and quickly marched back over to Joan, hearing the guy yowl over the sting of lemon juice in his eyes.

There were two main reason that she had done that: 1) Nobody treats her ~~little sister~~ best friend that way ever and 2) she was hoping the action would cheer Joan up a little. But Joan wasn’t smiling or giggling or even giving her a grateful look. In fact, she didn’t seem to be seeing at all. She looked…blind.

“Joan-”

Maggie gently touched Joan’s good shoulder and the girl blinked. She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were so glazed.

“Wh-what? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you…”

“Shit,” Maggie whispered. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you back to bed, alright?”

Joan just nodded wordlessly.

The walk back to the cabin was painstakingly slow, punctuated the entire time by Joan’s whimpers and shallow breaths. And then a sharp breath.

“M-Maggie-”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Joan is doubled over slightly, face ghost white and shimmering with sweat. Her good hand is now groping at her stomach.

“I don’t- I don’t think I can—make it.”

Maggie knew what she meant.

“Okay- Okay, come here.”

Maggie steered her over to the railing of the ship, since they had been taking the outdoor passage to avoid more people, and held her hair out of the way. It didn’t take long for Joan to start vomiting over the edge of the boat.

Maggie was never queasy around vomiting. Anne had an abundance of pregnancies as queen, which meant for lots of morning sickness and throw up, so she just got used to it. The sight, the smell, the sound- none of it bothered her. But when it was Joan violently ejecting her stomach contents, it genuinely hurt to watch.

After a minute or so, Joan pulls back, gasping for breath. Her knees are buckling, but Maggie is able to catch her before she crumbled to the ground.

“You can’t lay here, Joan.” Maggie said.

“P-please,” Joan begged weakly, and her pleading, desperate tone of voice sent cobwebs of cracks sprinting through Maggie’s usually-stoney heart. “I just— C-can I please sit down for a moment?” She’s bracing herself against the railing, teetering over it slightly, like she can’t decide if she’s going to vomit again or not.

“You can sit down when we get back to the cabin.” Maggie told her. “You can lay down, even! Doesn’t that sound so much better?”

Joan looked at her with glassy eyes and nodded.

“Let’s go, then. I’ll help you.”

It took five minutes to get back to the cabin, with odd stares from passers and murderous glares from Maggie along the way, but they eventually made it there. Joan immediately sat down on her bed, taking deep breaths. Maggie grabs a water bottle on the bedside table for her, which she takes gratefully. The ingestion of water seems to clear her up a little.

“M-Maggie?”

“Right here, Joan.” Maggie said, gently touching her right shoulder. “I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. It’s alright.”

“Th-that was a stupid idea. I should have listened to you.”

“Probably.” Maggie said bluntly. “But I got to throw lemonade in that asshole’s face. So that was cool.”

“You did?”

“Yup.”

“F-for me?”

“Mhm.”

“Aww…” Joan nuzzled Maggie weakly. “Can we lay down now?”

“Let’s get you into fresh clothes first, okay?” Maggie said, standing up.

“No,” Joan whined pitifully. “Please no, Maggie. I’m too tired…”

Maggie pursed her lips, then sighed.

“Fine. But can you at least brush your teeth? To get the taste of vomit out of your mouth.”

Joan agreed to that, although Maggie was the one who ended up doing most of the work with the brushing part, while Joan just swayed and stared at her corpse-like reflection in the mirror.

When the two eventually got into the bed, Maggie noticed Joan hugging her midsection, so she tentatively reached out and rubbed her stomach gently. It got a small gasp from Joan, but no complaints or pleas for her to stop, so she continues kneading in soothing circles.

“Who knew pianist’s liked belly rubs,” Maggie mused into the dark cabin. Her answer isn’t in words, but rather a grumble. She takes it as a sign of annoyance. “Oh, that’s too bad.” She pulls her hand back. “Guess I was wrong. Goodnight, Joan.”

“Mmm..?!” Joan whined (she was far too weak to speak, so she could only make little noises like that. She would be embarrassed about it later). She found Maggie’s hand in the dark, grabbed it, set it back onto her stomach, and made it rub herself. “ _Mmm_.”

This got the smallest chuckle out of Maggie, who resumed massaging Joan’s aching tummy.

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Mmmm…”

———

It’s just past three-fifty in the morning when Joan starts moving- digging her face into the pillow, flexing her legs, shaking so much it rattles the mattress. It’s a few more minutes later before Maggie up to a stifled whimper.

“Joan?” She whispers, propping herself up on an elbow in the darkness and rubbing her eyes. She squints when the only response she receives is the creak of the mattress, Joan curling further into herself, and another whimper. “Joan?”

No answer, but Joan is definitely still whining and keening, although it’s much softer. Weaker.

Maggie reached over and flicked on the lamp on the bedside table on her side. The sudden burst of radiance illuminates the room and the small pool of coagulated vomit Joan’s face is sitting in.

“Shit!”

Maggie is out of the bed in an instant and racing around to the other side, which has a puddle of bile below it.

“I’m sorry,” Joan just barely manages to squeak out. “I-it hurt t-too much… I-I couldn’t g-get up…”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Maggie calmed her. “But you gotta get up now, Joan. To go to the bathroom. Alright?”

It was very obvious that Joan did not want to move, but she obeyed anyway. With Maggie’s help, she managed to get up from the mess and stagger into the bathroom, where she promptly collapsed to her knees in front of the toilet. She doesn’t throw up, but she does rock over the bowl treacherously. As she does that, Maggie wets a flannel with warm water and began wiping off her face and neck.

“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered. Her voice was so weak and hoarse. “I-I didn’t m-mean to, Maggie. I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh,” Maggie hushed her fearful babbling. “I know, baby. I know you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry…!” Joan whimpered out again. A few tears slip free from her eyes and Maggie wipes them away.

“Don’t speak.” Maggie said. “Just relax. Take deep breaths. Think you can do that for me?”

Joan nodded. Maggie’s eyes crinkle softly at her efforts.

“Good girl.” Maggie praised. She examined the shirt Joan was wearing, which was soaked with vomit at the collar and right shoulder. “Can you take your shirt off or do you want me to?”

“I can’t-”

“Alright. Just hold still and…”

“No, Maggie, I _can’t_ —” Joan swallowed thickly through a wave of nausea and took a few more quick breaths. “I can’t _raise my arm_. I-it hurts too much.”

Maggie cussed softly under her breath. Joan must think it’s directed towards her because she cowers away.

“I’m not mad at you, Joan.” Maggie told her. “I understand. Your hand…” God, the bandages are so dark. “…it must hurt a lot.”

Joan nodded with a pitiful whimper.

“Okay, just-” Maggie got up, despite Joan’s pleas for her not to leave, and found a pair of scissors. She returned to her weeping music director and began cutting off her shirt, making a note to buy her a new one after this was all over. “There we go.”

Joan isn’t even embarrassed over Maggie seeing her without a top on, which means she was really far gone. If the thick glaze over her eyes that almost made her look blind didn’t give that away already.

“I’m going to go get the water bottle for you and try to fix the bed.” Maggie pressed a kiss to Joan’s soaked, sweaty hairline. “I’ll be right in here, darling.”

Maggie being more than a foot away was disagreeable. Her being in the room was like she was halfway across the world. Joan couldn’t handle it.

“Maggie,” Joan drawled out languidly, but it sounds more like a muffled groan.

She sunk to the ground, almost landing on her bad arm, but she manages to sprawl out on her poor stomach instead. The floor is so cold and nice beneath her heated flesh. She presses her burning forehead against it.

“Maggie,” Joan coughed out, feeling dizzy again.

She can’t move as bile rises up once more. Her body shakes harder and she felt vision cut out faster. Everything is growing dark as she fidgeted and thrashed on the bathroom floor, the electrifying agony surging through her veins like liquid fire.

Joan is just barely able to kick the bathtub as hard as she could before acid curled up in the back of her mouth and she choked violently, unable to breathe as she is unable to purge it out. The acid trickles back down her throat, leaving a burning trail down her esophagus. She can hear Maggie yelling and running to her side as she spasmed weakly.

In her daze, she barely felt Maggie shove her fingers into her mouth and scoop out the liquid.

Joan coughed and barely managed to regain herself enough to drag her head up and vomit into the toilet. Her stomach aches with the force of her heaves- she’s throwing up so hard she feels bile trickle out of her nose and eyes.

“Maggie,” Joan sobbed after she finally got everything out. The nausea was gone for the moment, but the pain it caused lingered. Her eyes and nose were stinging so badly- the blood vessels in her eyes were ruptured. Her hand hurt so much, too. Like it was on fire. “Maggie, it hurts… Make it stop, please…”

She slumps sideways and ends up with her head in Maggie’s lap, the rest of her body curled around her like a kitten seeking heat. A warm cloth wipes down her messy face again.

“Oh, my poor girl…” Maggie murmured. “I’m so sorry, Joan.”

“Nng…” Joan gurgled weakly. She shivers against Maggie’s thighs, screwing her eyes shut. “Hurts… Hurts…” She mumbled again.

For the first time in her life, Maggie was genuinely stunned. She didn’t know what to do besides stroke Joan’s hair or rub her back or massage her stomach or whisper loving things to her. What could she do? It was now four in the fucking morning. She was sure the nurses weren’t awake by now. And even if they were, they’ve already proven to be completely useless.

Maggie looked down at Joan, feeling a freezing cold chunk of ice stab into her gut, and realized that they still had three more days to go.

And that Joan had gone very still in her arms. Too still, considering just a moment ago she was shaking so hard it vibrated both of them. Maggie loosened her grip, only slightly, and she sees that Joan’s form is completely limp in her grasp.

Panic like she has never experienced invades all of Maggie’s senses, filling her with searing lava. A hundred thousand butterflies flap violently in her gut, swimming into her throat, into her blood.

“Joan?” Maggie lifted her chin up to get a look at her face. Eyes closed, lips parted barely. Joan’s chest isn’t rising and falling to way it should be. “Oh shit- Joan!”

When shaking does nothing, Maggie laid Joan back on the bathroom floor and loomed over her frail body, an ear pressed to her chest.

She can’t hear anything.

Maggie is up and out of the cabin in an instant. She sprinted down the hallway, not giving a shit about how loud she was being, and began pounding on Anne’s bedroom door, screaming and yelling as she did so, and she didn’t stop until Anne pulled open the door.

“Maggie-?”

“You have to come with me. It’s Joan. Something’s wrong. She’s-” Maggie’s voice falters. Anne caught it. “She’s sick. Not breathing. Just- come on! And get Jane!!”

A few people were peeking out of their rooms from the commotion, but Maggie just ran right past them, only looking behind her to check if Anne and Jane were coming (they were. Thank god their cabins were right next to each other).

Joan’s laying just as she was left when Maggie enters again. She dives down to her side instantly, quickly followed by Jane and Anne, who take turns feeling Joan’s burning forehead.

“We need to cool her down.” Jane said firmly. “Anne, fill the tub with cold water, please.”

It takes six agonizing minutes to fill the bathtub. Jane quickly lowered Joan’s shockingly lax body into the water, clothes and all, but kept her left hand out. Maggie watches with her normal blank expression, but her eyes are significantly wider than usual and she’s quite pale. Anne gently touches her shoulder, causing her to jump.

“She’ll be okay, Mags.” Anne whispered as Jane was wetting Joan’s pale face with a rag. “She’s got a heartbeat.”

Maggie perked up. “She does? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Anne nodded. “She’s breathing. It’s all okay.”

“Thank god,” Maggie whispered. Her persona was starting to crack. “I…I thought she was already…” She bit her lips together.

Don’t say it. Don’t jinx it.

“She’s a strong girl,” Jane said. “She’ll make it through this. However…” She casts a grim look at Joan’s left hand. “We need to redress her bandages. Flush the wound out, too.”

“She said it was too painful, which is why she hadn’t done it yet.” Maggie said. She grabbed all the necessary items the nurses had given them- gauze, disinfectant, bandages, swabs, medical tape, painkillers. “But I agree.”

It was at that moment that consciousness decided to return to Joan- something they all dreaded and knew would make the process of cleaning much more difficult.

Maggie went to Joan’s side instantly as Jane pulled the drain out and began emptying the bathtub. Joan looked dazedly at the lowering water she’s reclined in.

“I’m…water?”

“Yes, darling, you’re in water.” Maggie said, brushing wet hair out of Joan’s tired eyes.

“Water…” Joan whispered to herself and then lolled her head backwards. The poor thing was completely exhausted. She could barely even think straight. “Annie…? And Jane?”

“Hey, sweet girl,” Jane cooed, brushing Joan’s flushes cheek with one of her fingers. “You’re going to feel better soon, alright?”

“Feel…better?” Joan didn’t seem to understand what was going on. She anxiously looked between all the women, then focused completely on Anne, who was preparing some bandages. “M-Maggie?”

“Let’s get this over with.” Maggie said. She climbed into the tub behind Joan so the girl was pressed against her. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, holding her securely. Joan thinks it’s some kind of hug, so she snuggles into it. She can’t see the dark expression on Maggie’s face. “I’ll hold her.”

Jane nodded, then motioned for Anne to pin Joan’s arm down to the edge of the tub. This immediately elicits a whimper from Joan, who’s squirmed slightly.

“Ow,” She squeaked. “A-Annie, that hurts…”

Anne gave her a sad look, but didn’t say anything as Jane began to unwrap the stained bandages around Joan’s hand. It immediately made Joan flinch in discomfort.

“Ow, ow…!” She whined. “J-Jane— Please don’t—”

“We have to clean your hand, darling.” Maggie told her. “Please, try to sit still. It’ll be over quick.”

Joan nodded reluctantly and held her breath as the bandages were unraveled. She did good at not moving up until the very end of the unwrapping and she flinched hard. The last of the bandages appeared to be…stuck to her palm.

“Fuck-” Jane breathed. “Anne, hand me the scissors.”

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked as Jane is given the scissors. She looks down at the dark red mess that is Joan’s slightly uncovered palm and realizes what the dilemma was herself- skin was scabbed over and clotted in the bandages, with dried blood additionally acting as glue to plaster the mesh in place.

Or, to put it more simply: flesh had grown over damp parts of the bandages that sunk into the wound and practically fused to her hand.

Jane cuts away what she can, but there’s still patches remaining that she won’t be able to slice off without possibly jabbing the wound with the scissor blades.

“Alright,” Jane said. “Anne, Maggie. Hold her still.”

“Wh-what?” Joan squeaked.

Jane searches for a give one last time, but couldn’t find one, so she grabs the edge of the remaining bandage pieces and pulls. They come off successfully, as does a fresh layers of flesh.

Joan shrieks and began to thrash violently. She slammed herself back against Maggie and kicked her legs in the tub, screaming like she was being gutted alive.

“Stop it!!” Joan sobbed. “Stop it, stop it, please! Please! Maggie, make her stop!!”

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Maggie whispered, holding Joan tighter. “I’m so sorry. You gotta clam down.”

Joan doesn’t. She continues to spasm and writhe violently.

“Please-!! It hurts! IT HURTS!!”

Maggie has to cover her mouth at that point, but she continues to howl and cry and beg for Jane to stop and just leave her alone. She struggles more, too, absolutely terrified. Maggie’s murmurs don’t reach her ears. In fact, she doesn’t even know if she can trust Maggie at this point, so she bites down on the woman’s hand.

“Fuck-!!” Maggie hissed. She grits her teeth tightly.

“Maggie?” Jane looked at her in alarm.

“I’m fine,” Maggie grunted. Thin trails of blood are running down her hand from where it’s still in Joan’s mouth. “Keep working. She’s distracted.”

Jane nodded hesitantly, then continued…only to stop and stare at the gaping red horror that was Joan’s hand. If being able to see through her palm or watching bubbles of blood belch from the wound or just seeing the frayed, mangled flesh that was so dark it was black in such a bad state didn’t make any of their stomachs churn, then the smell of drooling discharge and dripping pus did.

Anne and Maggie had to hand it to Jane (no pun intended). Despite the smell and the sight and the sound of Joan crying and screaming, she worked diligently: flushing out the wound with water and disinfectant, cleaning the dirty edges, not flinching when blood or pus splatters onto her, plucking away the peeling medical tape and replacing it with new pieces, wrapping the hand up carefully. The entire process still took around fifteen minutes, but she did a good job. And, by then, Joan was unconscious again.

“Poor little thing,” Jane murmured after washing her hands and throwing away all the dirty remnants of the former wrapping. “I think her wound is infected.”

Maggie swallowed hard. Anne paled.

“But…she’ll be okay after you cleaned it, right?” Anne asked.

Jane pursed her lips together. “I hope so.” She steps over to Joan, who’s still being held by Maggie, feels the area just below her ears on both sides, her brow knotting slightly as she went.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

“Her lymph nodes are swollen. Means her immune system’s getting kicked into overdrive.” Then, after a moment of hesitation, “Her hand is definitely infected. But she’s fighting it. So that’s good.” She looks back into the bedroom. “I’m going to go clean that mess up.”

She walked out, not really caring about her new mission to clean up vomit. Perhaps it was her way of repaying Joan when she had been sick after giving birth to Edward. She was sure it was just as messy, if not messier.

Anne and Maggie are left in the bathroom with an unconscious Joan. The girl is starting to shiver, so they take her out of the now-empty tub and tag team dressing her in fresh clothes. When they’re finished, Joan has come back to them slightly, now mumbling incoherently, but not awake enough to stand, so Anna carries her trembling body back to the cleaned bed.

“Do you need us to stay with you tonight?” Jane asked.

“No,” Maggie shook her head. Joan is curled up in her arms, sleeping peacefully for the first time that night. “We’re okay.”

“Alright.” Jane nodded. “We’ll be up for the rest of the morning, so call if you need anything.”

With that, she and Anne walked out and Maggie is left with her unconscious girl shivering against her. She wraps her arms tightly around Joan and pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead.

“I love you, my darling.”

For the first time since she was reincarnated, she felt tears well up in her eyes.


	4. The Secret of The Goldfish

It was eleven when Maggie finally woke up and she could still feel exhaustion trying to tug her eyelids shut. She rubbed them vigorously, then sat up, stretching with a yawn. Beside her, Joan stirred and looked up blearily.

“Gigi…?”

“Hey, Joey,” Maggie murmured. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmmm… Like I was run over with a truck with…acid…wheels….”

“Ah.” Maggie nodded knowingly. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

Joan blinked multiple times, attempting to get rid of the black dots spotting her vision. When most of them are gone, she slowly turns her head to look at Maggie.

“I…ah…not really..”

“I thought so.”

Maggie went to inform her about what went down when Joan actually started to try and get herself up. The guitarist ruffles and grabs one of the girl’s shoulders (the good one), earning a small squeak of alarm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She snapped.

“Getting…up..” Joan slurred, her voice drowning in and out.

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.” Maggie said firmly. “You need to rest.”

“But…”

“I’m older. You have to listen to me.”

Joan frowned, but let herself collapse back down to bed. Maybe a little harder than she had intended because she whimpers in pain. Maggie gently cups her cheeks, then feels her forehead.

“You’re still burning up…”

“I’m…not on fire…?” Joan slurred.

Maggie blinked, then blew out an amused breath. She shook her head at Joan’s babbling.

She started to fix the blankets around Joan, tucking her in and making sure her feet were covered, but Joan squirms and tries to kick the covers off.

“It’s too hot!” She complained.

“I know, I know. But I have to. Jane said. The cold will worsen your fever.” Maggie tucked Joan in again and she reluctantly let her.

Joan felt utterly sweaty and disgusting. She gave a wet cough and opened her eyes (she hadn’t realized she had closed them). Maggie looked the most worried she had ever seen her. Her eyes were wide and stricken. Joan coughed again. Maggie lifted her upper body some and held a water bottle to her lips.

“Drink, Joan. Slowly or you’ll upset you stomach.”

Joan placed a hand on the side of the bottle to help steady it and drank slowly like Maggie asked. The water quenched her parched throat, but it grated against it as well. It felt like someone had run their nails down the inside of it. She had to turn her head away to cough again, but it jostled the bottle and spilled water spilled down the front of her, and she couldn’t bring herself to care because it cooled her off some.

“S-sorry,” Joan stammered weakly. “I-I didn’t mean…”

“Shh,” Maggie hushed her. “It’s alright, Joan. Just relax.”

Joan nodded sluggishly and laid back down. She tries to get comfortable, but her stomach kept cramping and her head felt like it was about to explode, so she didn’t get very far with that mission.

She wanted her mum. Mums got rid of sickness, right? But her mum never got rid of her sicknesses. (Did she even have a mum?) This comforting thing was new.

“What…what happened?” Joan asked, managing to string at least a few words together.

“You…you were sick last night. Really badly.” Maggie informed somberly.

Joan furrowed her eyebrows and looked up to the ceiling.

“I don’t…Maggie, where..where are we?”

Joan could barely suppress a small gasp. She frowned in worry.

“We’re on the cruise ship. We’re in a musical. We play music. SIX. Remember?”

Joan blinked a few times and then nodded.

“Oh yeah… Sorry…”

“It’s alright, Joan. You’re disorientated.”

Joan nodded and shut her heavy eyelids. Shock is starting to wear off and, even though her nerves are still tingling, she’s beginning to feel the full extent of her wound. Especially after the cleaning. Her palm felt raw and stung intensely, like she was holding dry ice to it. Maggie notices her grimace and sets a gentle hand on her good shoulder.

“Are you going to be sick?” Maggie asked.

“N-no,” Joan grunted, “It’s just-” She winced when she tried to move her inured arm. “It burns…”

“Oh.” Maggie said, glancing at the hand. “Right. I’m sorry, Joey.”

Guilt pooled in the back of the guitarist’s throat. Her companion was clearly in a lot of pain, but she didn’t know how to help.

“It’s okay…” Joan mumbled. “I’m tired…”

“Then sleep, darling. I’ll stay with you.” Maggie said. She sets Sunny on Joan’s chest. “There. Your tampon is here, too.”

That got the tiniest giggle out of Joan.

“Not a tampon,” Joan growled playfully. “She’s a…” Her mind goes blank for a moment. When it returns, she blinked and her brain feels like it had been zapped. “…tamarin! Not a tampon… Dummy.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. She picked Sunny back up, causing Joan to whine softly.

“What is so appealing about this thing, anyway?” She flutters its ears, then wiggles the long tail. “Seriously.”

“Maggie…” Joan whined. She reaches weakly for her stuffed animal and Maggie surrenders it to her groping hand. She pulled Sunny back to her chest protectively. “ _Mmmph_.”

Maggie chuckled lovingly and she strokes through Joan’s hair as she turns her attention to the TV. She watches random shows for half an hour as Joan dozes at her side.

“Maggie?”

“Yes, Joan?”

“Am I better now?”

Maggie turned to Joan and looked at her like she was crazy. Joan, on the other hand, looks serious about what she said. The guitarist’s features turn to concern.

“What? No. No, you’re not better, Joan. You’re the exact opposite of better. Why would you think you’re okay?”

“Because I…”

She had to get up. She had to just push through the pain and get to work again. She was a music director, goddamnit!

“I have to…show…music…”

Joan still can’t put words together properly, but she doesn’t need to talk. She just needed to be able to move.

“Woah, wait. Hang on- HEY!”

Maggie grabbed Joan by the good arm when she nearly collapsed while she attempted to get out of bed. She could feel the girl trembling beneath her fingers.

“Don’t move! You’re hurt, Joan. Like, really badly. You need to rest.”

“No,” Joan grits, “I need-”

“Joan, you can barley speak properly. What makes you think you can play a piano and direct a show?”

Joan opened her mouth, then closed it. She looks away, ashamed. Maggie gently strokes back her sweaty bangs.

“It’s okay, my darling. Rest up, okay?”

“Mhm…”

Another hour passes. Joan’s stomach makes a noise and she curled around it. Maggie looked down at her.

“Joan? You okay?”

“M-my stomach…” She squeaked. “Hurts.”

“Would you like me to rub it?”

Joan’s face flashed red, but she still nods. Maggie beckoned her over, so she rests her head in the older woman’s lap and sighed softly in contentment when gentle, soothing circles are rubbed against her midsection. Maggie’s other hand cups her temples and strokes up and down her hot forehead with her thumb. It elicits adorable coos from Joan, who can’t help but lean into the touches.

“So pianists like belly rubs AND they purr.” Maggie chuckled. “Good to know.”

Joan giggled softly and nuzzles into the hand on her head. Maggie’s skin is so cool on hers. She wants it to remain there forever. But alas. After she passes out from exhaustion and wakes up hours later, Maggie is gone.

Joan just barely gets the strength to haul herself to the bathroom to throw up the water she had ingested hours earlier.

Her hand is festering, but she’s too scared to look down and have to see the purple veins peeking out from under the bandages.

———

Anne and Jane visit on the fifth day. Maggie was utterly exhausted from tending to Joan the day before, so they both took over while she caught up on much-needed sleep.

They found Joan in the bathroom, half asleep on the shower mat. Anne quickly scooped her up and brought her back to the bed, only to be unable to let the girl go, since she was now attached to her.

“Uhh, Jane?” Anne said.

“Yes?” Jane replied as she was heating up some microwaveable soup. She turns to Anne, who has Joan clinging to her tightly like a baby sloth would to its mother.

“It appears I have a pianist stuck to me.”

Jane chuckled and snapped a quick picture, much to Anne’s dismay.

“Maggie’s going to be jealous,” She mused as she walked over to the pair. “Come on, sweet girl,” She gently tugs on Joan’s right arm. “Let go.”

“Mmmm!” Joan replied stubbornly. She digs her face against Anne’s neck. She somehow manages to get her legs around the queen’s waist and really did end up looking like a sloth. “ _No_.”

“Well, we tried.” Jane gave up. “She’s comfortable.”

Anne playfully scowled at her, then sat down on the bed so Joan was situated in her lap. Still clinging. The girl just did not want to let go. Anne takes to running her fingers through her oily hair, which earns her a few coos (or, as Maggie has started calling them, “pianist purrs.”)

“We really should have washed her hair last night.” Anne commented idly.

“Oh yes.” Jane rolled her eyes in a good natured way. “Cleaning a wound and then cleaning hair. They go hand-in-hand in a crisis situation like last night.”

“Well, what do you think, Jo?” Anne leans the girl back. “Shall we run you a hot bath so you can wash your hair?”

Joan blinked blearily at Anne then pitched forward and bumped her forehead with hers like a cat would. Anne chuckled and cupped the back of her head, returning it to her shoulder, which is quickly nuzzled back into.

“She is so out of it.” She said.

“A hot bath would worsen her fever, anyway.” Jane said.

“Well, a cold one would probably make her uncomfortable and miserable.” Anne pointed out.

Jane hummed.

“What about a lukewarm one?”

“That word is so stupid.”

The two queens shared a laugh.

The cabin microwave beeps loudly, rousing Joan and causing her to make a tiny reactive noise. Anne smoothed out her hand.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart.” She said to her. “You’re pretty grumpy when you’re feverish, huh?”

Joan glared weakly at her, but she was about as intimidating as a glowering baby tree kangaroo that got its branch taken away.

“Cutie.” Anne kissed her forehead. “Do you think she’ll eat, Jane?”

“We’re about to find out.”

The answer to that was initially “no”, but Jane and Anne managed to force half of the soup down Joan’s throat. The girl hated them by the end of it and curls underneath her blankets with Sunny, like she thought the covers and stuffed animal could protect her from further torture.

“We’re probably her least favorite queens now.” Anne decided.

“Yup.” Jane laughed slightly.

The bed dips- Jane is sitting beside her. A hand rests on her head.

“Wanna come out, sweet pea?”

“Mmm…” Joan growled.

“See. Grumpy.” Anne commented with a titter.

“Well, we’re gonna go then.” Jane said. “We’ll check back in the morning, alright? Call or text if you need anything.”

With that, they were gone. Joan doesn’t mind the loneliness, actually. It’s peaceful.

But then a fever dream starts to creep into her consciousness. Because something has rooted itself to her.

The infection in her hand was in her blood. And it was slowly making its way to her brain.


	5. In The Mouth Of The Leviathan

Joan awoke to excruciating pain.

Her mouth opens to scream, but no noise came out. Only a strangled whine that grates the back of her throat like hot iron claws. She struggled to sit up and was met with even further discomfort- soreness in all of her limbs, tightness in her chest, cramps in her stomach, pounding in her head. It all added to her misery and she didn’t think it could get any worse, but then she looked at her hand and the blood all over her bed.

Red. Red on her sheets and blankets and pillows. Red soaked through the fabric and her bandages. Red dripping from the gaping hole in her palm. 

The wound had opened back up in her sleep.

A choked cry worms its way out of Joan’s throat. She began to weep weakly as pain invaded all her senses. She wrapped her good arm around her stomach and wished Maggie was there holding her, rocking her, telling her that everything would be okay.

But it wouldn’t be okay, would it?

Joan was dying. She knew it. She could feel it. She could feel her cells shredding themselves and her blood tainting and her poor stomach lining inflaming from the infection that now coursed through her body. First, her hand went, now her stomach was being attacked by the bacteria…it wouldn’t be long until her heart was next, and then her brain.

And then there would be no more Joan.

Tears burned as they slid down Joan’s cheeks. She didn’t want to die. There was still so much she wanted to do, so much she wanted to see, so much she wanted to say. She wanted to sing all the songs she wrote herself, she wanted to learn how to swim, she wanted to finally beat Nightmare King Grimm in Hollow Knight, she wanted to get an apartment with Maggie and adopt a cat and argue about what kind of decorations they’d have in their flat. She wanted to tell Maggie how much she meant to her.

But she doesn’t know if she can anymore. Because her body is destroying itself and she can feel herself getting weaker and weaker as the seconds ticked by.

She knows her time is running out, so, with whatever strength she had left, she grabbed her phone and began to type in an empty doc. She typed and typed and typed until her vision started to blur and her hand burned and her stomach ached.

Then, her phone is back on the bedside table and she’s crumpled on the floor, kneeling over a pool of her own bloody vomit. Consciousness leaves her quickly and she finally gives in to her infection.

After everything, it’s nice to not feel.

———

Jane and Anne find Joan sprawled out on the floor of the cabin when they went to visit her with lunch. They rushed to her side and were horrified to find that she was barely breathing.

“She’s in a rhythm.” Jane declared grimly.

Before Anne can react, Jane’s threading her fingers together and pumping them against Joan’s rib cage with measured violence.

“Rhythm? What does that mean?“ Anne asked in alarm. She notices that Jane’s breathing a new number every half-second, counting off as she delivers CPR.

Jane reached fifteen and then looked at Anne. Her eyes are determined, but worried and scared.

“Listen to me, Anne. If we don’t even out her heart rate, she’s going into cardiac arrest. I need to do this, okay?“

Jane goes back to Joan within seconds, putting her ear to her chest and beginning her straining pumps again. Again, she counts out to fifteen and puts her temple on her chest.

“Shit.” It’s so quiet that it’s hardly a word, more of a distressed noise. With sweat beading on her forehead she goes through five more cycles before her arms begin the shake visibly. “Come on…” She grunts into her motions. “Come on, Joan.”

Anne can just sit petrified, watching the queen struggle with her efforts. She claps her own hands together and prays silently.

“Come on, Joan!” Jane’s calls are slowly becoming louder, fighting the edge of desperation. She’s coming up on her thirteenth cycle, pumping against Joan’s rib cage with weakening arms, and the beads of sweat on her forehead only serve to frighten Anne further.

“Joan, open your eyes.” Anne encouraged. She took one of the girl’s hand- it’s so cold in her own. “Don’t do this.”

But Jane is losing her battle against Joan’s heart.

“You aren’t allowed to give up now, Joan!” The silver queen shouted between clenched teeth, and Anne agreed with her angrily.

“Joan, you’re so close,” Anne spoke back up, squeezing tightly to the small, still, freezing hand in her own. “You’re almost there. You can’t let go now!”

A sickening silence fills the room. Jane leans once more, ear pressed firmly to Joan’s chest. Anne swore she felt a twitch of pressure around her hand.

“Yes…Yes!” Jane’s exclamation catches Anne off guard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come on.” She’s beaming in relief.

“Is she…?”

“Yeah,“ Jane nodded. “She’s alive.”

Anne closed her eyes and smiled. She quickly wiped away tears that had been forming, then looked down at Joan.

“She’s still not waking up.”

Jane’s smile is gone, replaced with a dark frown.

“I don’t think she has the strength to wake up.”

Anne swallowed thickly. Behind her, she hears the locking mechanism on the door click, but neither she nor Jane dare to face the one who steps inside. They can’t bear to see the stricken expression plastered on their face after what just happened.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Anne whispered.

Jane does not answer as Maggie lunges down to their sides and takes Joan’s lax body into her arms.

———

The nurses in the ship’s medical wing stare pitifully when Maggie covers Joan up with blankets and sleeps huddled next to her in one of the beds, but they don’t say anything. It’s the only thing the guitarist can think to do, her ~~little sister’s~~ dear friend’s body too cold and too weak to fend for itself.

It’s been six hours since Jane pulled Joan back from the brink of death. Maggie never thought she’d think such a thing, but she wished she’d stay unconscious until they got to land.

Instead, Joan operates in the between space, the little grey line between states of being. She wakes, but she is delirious with fever and confused every time. She talks, but never beyond a mutter of no significant meaning. Her eyes open sometimes, but only to stare at the ceiling in an empty way. If she were lucid enough to understand her situation, most would think she was waiting impatiently for her own death.

Maggie clung desperately to Joan’s side despite how disturbingly frozen she is, and listened to music alone. She tried so many times to wake her with it, but the bud wouldn’t stay in her ear and eventually she gave up. In the back of my mind she realized that this is the beginning of their separation, when the pieces of the two of them disconnect in a long, painful way until everything pulls back and snaps suddenly.

When Joan is gone.

Maggie’s hand clenches tightly around Joan’s side, and for the hundredth time in the last hour she wills the girl to wake.

_If you love me, you’ll wake up._

_If you love me, you won’t make me go through this alone._

_If you love me, you’ll open your eyes._

Nothing.

Joan doesn’t even stir.

Maggie kissed her forehead lightly.

Joan doesn’t respond.

Maggie wants her back.

———

Joan’s cabin feels haunted when Maggie enters on the sixth night. What used to be a cozy little safe haven that she loved to visit was now a dim, vomit-smelling den of pain and bad memories. Blood has turned rust brown on the bed sheets. The pool of throw up is still stained on the ground. Evidence of the torturous week that Joan so desperately tried to endure lied everywhere.

Maggie stands in the middle of the room for the longest time until her mind collapses. Her persona finally shatters to pieces and she lets herself crumple.

She remembers first meeting Joan, surprised to see that she of all ladies in waiting had come back to life. She remembers first getting close to the girl, how Joan would follow her around like a duckling from afar, but not have the courage to actually talk to her. She remembers boarding the boat, taking Joan’s hand in the process and leading her up the walkway, since the poor thing had been quite nervous about getting on. She remembers the way Joan practically leapt into her end after the very first performance and she cracked a smile at her excited, happy babbling.

Those were the days, the months in which they consumed one another. Even if they were platonic, more than that- sisterly, they changed each other. They fed on each other’s energy. They laughed together, smiled together, and everything in between those points. Friends left, lovers left, family left, but they stayed, always. Always.

Joan is all Maggie has. She was all of her.

And with Joan freezing and unresponsive in the medical wing, Maggie can already feel herself becoming nothing.

Through a beginning haze of tears (oh how it hurt to cry), Maggie noticed Joan’s phone on the nightstand. She gingerly picked it up and put in the password (1234…she would tell Joan to change it to something less guessable it it weren’t for their current situation). A doc is opened up to her and she begins to read what it said.

_Dear Maggie,_

_I’ve never told you before, but I’ve always been searching for something. What I wanted was someone to laugh with. Someone to smile with. Someone to suffer with…even fight with. A true friend. That’s what I was looking for. And I finally found one. And that was you, Maggie._

_We’re best friends, you and me. You really are my dearest friend. I wanted us to stay together forever, but…_

_Even if we won’t be able to see each other anymore, I’ll still be thinking of you everyday, wherever I go. No matter what the distance, no matter what happens to me, no matter where I go or if I disappear…I will never forget you._

_Thank you. Thank you for being with me all this time. Thank you for holding my hand and hugging me and supporting me through this—and everything else. Your touch and your voice and your presence means more than you’ll ever know. It kept me going through everything that hit me. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be.  
_

_I’m glad we got to meet. You gave me a chance to smile and laugh and live like I never had before. You gave me a purpose in this world. Nobody has ever loved me like you have._

_I’ll miss you, and I know you’ll miss me, too, but promise me you’ll live your life. Don’t rush our reunion. Go live. I’ll wait a thousand years for you, Maggie._

_I have to go now. I can’t keep writing anymore. But I had to leave something for you._

_Goodbye, Maggie. I love you._

_-Your darling Joan_

Tears poured down Maggie’s cheeks as she sunk to the ground, sobbing. She didn’t care how loud she was being, she didn’t care who would hear or if this ruined her stoney persona. She couldn’t help herself.

It hurt to breathe. Her chest was aching with the weight of each sob. When she looked up, she could barely see through the haze in front of her eyes, but she just barely managed to make out a furry mass on the bed.

Maggie grabbing Sunny and cuddled her close to her chest as she wept.

Now she understood why Joan liked it so much.

———

The cruise ship docks in Cozumel the next morning on the seventh day. The nurses wanted to put Joan on a gurney, but there was no time. She had to get off the ship that instant, so Cleves scooped her limp body up and began running.

There’s an ambulance and a readied gurney pulled out in front of the docks. Most people know to move when nine Tudor women are charging in a herd, but some don’t and they are shoved without mercy. There was no time to ask them to step slightly to the right- they had a girl dying in one of their arms, damnit! Everyone could wait to get on the island and explore.

The doctors take one look at Joan when they get down to the ambulance and begin shouting commands at one another, taking her from Cleves’ arms and strapping her into the gurney. Maggie and Maria barely have time to climb in after them before they slam the back doors and speed off onto the interstate.

“What has happened to this girl?” One of them said to Maria in Spanish, urgent tone thinly veiled.

“A light fell on her hand.” Maria answered.

Maggie looked between them, not knowing what either of them were saying. She knew very little Spanish, which was why Maria was there in the first place, but it only took a little common sense to know what they were discussing wasn’t very good.

The ambulance was going so fast that Maggie could hardly stay seated without tumbling over. Shouting, clasping grips and stabbing needles, ad scribbling on white paper pads- there’s so much going on in such a small space. Flurries of abstract motion. That unnatural freeze that soaked beneath Joan’s milky grey skin is now a heat- burning up, boiling, blazing. Such a temperature spike so quickly, and they’re so close now to getting her help…Was she giving up now?

Or had she already given up a long time ago?

One of the machines to Maggie’s right began to beep rapidly, deafeningly, like some kind of angry force. It beats viciously in her brain and she screwed her eyes shut. She never was the most religious person, but she found herself praying to God and any other ethereal beings that may exist to save her little sister.

Not best friend anymore. Little sister. Joan was her sister and she wasn’t going to lose another one.

Not after Anne.

It takes a long, very long ten minutes before the ambulance finally pulled into the emergency station at the local hospital. The team is bursting through the doors in seconds, completely prepared, white jackets and blue gloves and silver chrome instruments. They crowd Joan, yelling. By Maria’s wide eyes, Maggie knows whatever they’re saying isn’t good.

The two follow them in, more running, more shouting, more needles. Someone orders for broad spectrum antibiotics. Doctors form a typhoon, a tornado surrounding the gurney as it’s rolled inside, and a collection of nurses egg Maggie and Maria with personal questions.

It isn’t long before Joan is wheeled off somewhere further into the hospital, somewhere not even Maggie can follow. She and Maria are left in the wakes of the panic, standing aimlessly in shock. The others arrive soon, but there was nothing they could do but wait.

And wait they do.

A nurse comes out, eventually. An English speaking one, thank god. If this lady was the bearer of bad news, everyone knew neither Maria or Aragon, the only Spanish speakers there, wanted to be the ones to translate and pass that onto everyone else.

“Is she okay?” Maggie asked instantly, jumping out of her seat.

“Joan. She’s in critical condition. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

Maggie couldn’t bear to hear anything else. Jane and Anne took over listening to the news while Maggie went to sit back down and pray alongside Aragon. And Bessie. And Cathy. And even Cleves, who teased Joan religiously. They were all praying for the girl’s recovery.

Surely God would hear at least one of their pleas.

———

Surgery. Surgeries. Surgery.

It’s a blur- Was it plural? Did Joan get one or two? Were two needed for a hold in the hand? Or was the other for something else?

Maggie didn’t know. Nobody knew.

Two days have passed. Joan hasn’t been seen by any of her friends. The cruise is being delayed, but the captain can’t promise for much longer.

They were going to leave Joan behind.

Not like they’ve failed her enough already.

It’s on that second day when Joan is allowed to be seen. Maggie rushes to the opportunity and nobody stops her.

Joan is so very pale in her bed and so very small, like a baby bird. Her features are sunken, but relaxed as she sleeps. Or, what Maggie hopes is sleep. Her left hand is still attached to her wrist- honestly, Maggie had been fearing it would be amputated. When an English-speaking doctor steps in, he relieves Maggie of that fear—the hand was still functional.

But then his face went very dark.

“What?” Maggie said. A chunk of ice stabs mercilessly into her gut.

“Joan is stable.” The doctor said first. “She will recover.”

Tears fill Maggie’s eyes. Tears of relief and joy, but all she can do it nod with a mouthed, “Thank you.” The doctor gave her a small smile through his grim expression.

“However—” He stopped and looked down at his clipboard. “She is a pianist, yes?”

“Yeah,” Maggie nodded. “We perform on that cruise. The show’s called SIX. She plays the keyboard and also is our music director.”

“She must love her job.”

Maggie actually managed a light, laughing breath. “She tries.”

The doctor nodded. He’s looking at his notes again.

“Joan will make a recovery,” He said again. “And her hand will still be functional. But there will be permanent nerve damage in it.”

Maggie swallowed thickly. The shard of ice presses in deeper- she feels like she’s being ripped open.

“What do you mean?”

“Things like writing, eating, simply picking things up with that hand will be difficult. Near impossible at times, depending on flareups.” The doctor explained. “She may never play piano again.”

Like that, Joan’s whole world came crashing down on top of Maggie, and she could only save some of it. She goes very still; the piece of ice has ripped a hole through her, just like the hole in Joan’s hand, and just like the permanent hole now opened up in the girl’s life.

“Or, at least she won’t be able to play like she used to.”

Maggie gets to be alone with Joan shortly after. She sits by the bedside, holding the girl’s good hand in her own. She murmurs to her, whispers to her, hums to her, and lets her know that she was there and she could take her time with waking up, but she just had to know that she will have to wake up and return to her at some point.

And, like before, like when this all started, she lies to Joan over and over again. She says she’ll be able to play her piano again soon and perform all those songs she had planned. But something tells her when Joan’s foggy eyes slowly open, that she already knows.

She knows and she’s pretending it isn’t true, just like Maggie was.

“Hey,” Maggie whispered.

“Hey,” Joan croaked.

Still together. There’s something new, now, and it has lurked into their lives like a snake or an unwanted guest, but they’re still together.

Or, at least Maggie thinks. It isn’t the same Joan looking at her. Not really. Not anymore. But she’ll love her all the same.


End file.
